


A Sequence Of Tactically Sound Decisions

by sparrowinsky



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowinsky/pseuds/sparrowinsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly what it says on the tin. Balem Abrasax, post-movie, potential redemption arc. </p><p>But probably not, because I like me some villains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sequence Of Tactically Sound Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> My style trends storyteller-around-a-campfire at the best of times, and let's face it, Balem Abrasax is 100% glittery space emo, so this is completely purple prose and I REGRET NOTHING.

His first sight upon waking is a child, a mole splice, her face all dark small eyes and trembling nose. He is immediately flooded with several conflicting desires: to order water, for his parched throat; to demand an explanation for the fierce pain winding along his side, the ringing in his head; to scream, and scream, and scream; and, bafflingly, to reach out and pet the terrified child. 

He does none of these things. Instead Balem Abrasax, first son of Seraphi Abrasax, lays his bloody head against the cold meta floor, and allows blessed unconsciousness to overwhelm him. 

***

Balem wakes again, warmer and in less pain, the fervent hum of engines beneath his head. 

His mouth is still dry, but the pain had receded to a dull ache, and his faculties are clear enough that he can shove his fear and anger down deep. He takes stock of his surroundings.

Without opening his eyes, he can smell the metal around him. Humming metal means a ship, and a small one, or a cheap one. His body rests on a hard surface, with thin and lumpy padding between it and himself. He's covered by rough fabric, and a twitch of his fingers describes to him a pattern of knots and thread.

And three sets of even, damp puffs of air. He is not alone.

After a long moment, Balem opens his eyes. 

The little splice remains, body nearly quivering with excitement, or perhaps fear. He ignores her immediately in favor of the obvious threat: a large rat splice, bulky with years of labor and glowering in an uncomfortably menacing way. 

Balem is not easily menaced, but he will admit himself at some small measure of disadvantage, just at the moment.

"Where am I," he breathes, after the silence had grown heavy and exhausting. He does not ask. He only, as always, commands. 

"Alive," the rat answers, which is no answer at all. Balem is no position to punish the creature's impudence, so he raises his right hand in a lazy, gentle motion. Examines it. Flawless. 

"Indeed. How unlikely."

"You fell into the vats, my lo-" the smaller adult figure, another mole, trails off uncertainly at a glance from the rat. Balem arches an eyebrow, glances from them to the child. Ah. 

"You're aware that splices are not permitted to breed." More diplomatic than what he's like to say: you filthy animals have disobeyed, I will see you gutted, kneel before me. Balem is not as mad as his siblings would enjoy believing, and he can stomach niceties. For now. 

The child squeaks, a pathetic noise of alarm, and scrambles out of the tiny bunk space. 

The rat somehow glowers even more, and looms over Balem like a wrothful parent. 

"Technically, I own you," Balem says, and while he does not flinch at his own words, a quiet mental voice notes that they were moderately unwise. 

"Strictly speaking, sir, you're dead. And no one here will lift a finger for you." The splice sneers. The smell of his sweat fills the air around Balem until he feels like gagging on it, acrid musk. 

"You've bred in the factories. Like the animals you are." Balem can't keep the disgust from thickening his voice, though it is distantly felt, like touching someone through a thick blanket. "Parasites," he snarls, without any real heat. The rat chuckles, deep and sly and growling, and steps back to knock a rough fist against the bulkhead. 

Balem doesn't protest when they haul him from the bunk and toss him onto a pile of blankets in a crowded, stinking hold. It would be beneath him.

Instead he chooses to close his eyes, tightly, and fall into memories behind them.

***

He wakes a third time, in a crowded room stinking of flesh and metal and despair. 

The greater portion of him is contect that his eyes should remain closed forever, until he sleeps himself away from this wretched and unwanted renewal. Fitting that he should end like his mother, despairing of the very life he's sought to keep. 

And yet, a smal streak of obstinance forces his lungs to breathe, his heart to beat, his eyes to open. He pushes himself upright, leaning against a rough metal wall. 

The hold is filled with children. All splices, most recognizable but a few obviously combinations. He huffs out a faint irritated breath, annoyed anew by the blatant disregard for law. He'd intentionally never purchased breeding splices, and he was beginning to develop a plan which involved carefully skinning whichever of the wretches disabled the sterility implants. 

Someone had to pay for dragging him back to life. Why not start with the unknown and work his way out?

The laugh that bubbles up from his chest is not desperate, no, he is Balem Abrasax and he won't allow it. 

He turns his attention outward instead, gaze flickering across the small faces. Most are turned towards him, eyes wide in the dim light. 

"Water," he breathes, neither anger nor command in his voice. Most of the children ignore him, but some, perhaps a third, shuffle in obsequious confusion. The first child, the mole-girl, rises with only the briefest hesitation. 

The water she brings him, in a yellowed glass, is warm and rank like a stagnant pond. He sips it as if it were finest liquor, and gazes implacably at the small splice. 

Her bones are good, he can see that easily. Despite the unnatural thinness of her arms and the frail skin so delicately enclosing her muscles, she moves easily, gracefully. Her eyes meet his, the desire for praise overwhelming her fear. 

Balem reaches out a trembling hand, ignoring the pain that stretches across his ribs. He lays it upon her rough, dust-brown curls, leans close, and whispers against her tiny ear. "Good girl."

A shudder runs through the splice, and she bolts from beneath his gentle hand, disappearing into the crowd of children. 

Balem leans back against the wall, sipping still at his disgusting water, contemplative. He allows himself the faintest twitch of the lips in his pleasure. 

He will turn his face away from those who know him. There are other ways of gaining wealth, though none so sure as harvests. 

He will wait, and build, and when that filthy toilet-scrubber thinks herself safe, he's going to rip her throat out and watch her bleed.


End file.
